Her Mark
by truly unruly
Summary: Oneshot. "Satine fooled him into thinking she loved him. And now she’s left her mark, in more ways than one." Back home in England, the Duke muses on his life, lost love and regrets.


Okay…HI! This is my first _MR _fan fiction, and it's JUST a one-shot (sigh). I'll probably write some more _MR _stuff, but I don't know.

**DISCLAIMER**: You think I own _Moulin Rouge!_? Okay…is my name Baz Luhrmann? No? Then _Moulin Rouge! _isn't mine. Unless I change my name to Baz Luhrmann and SAY it's mine. Hey, that's a pretty good idea…

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_Her Mark_

The room is large and circular, and very grand. The grey brick walls are covered in unique paintings works of art, illuminated by the roaring fire in the fire place. The floor is wooden, but the majority of it is covered by an expensive-looking rug that is coloured a rich scarlet. A lone armchair sits by the fire and in it sits a man, a sad man, staring out the window at the sky.

The heavy wooden door is suddenly pushed open and a small maid enters the room. The man looks up at her with his watery pale blue eyes.

"What?" he snaps impatiently. The maid recoils slightly.

"Sorry, dear Duke," she whispers timidly, "But I was wondering if there was anything you wanted from me before I retire,"

"No!" the Duke bites out, waving a hand at the door, "I need nothing!"

The maid nods, before turning and quickly leaving the room. The Duke sighs irritably.

He has been home in England for almost two weeks, and somehow, being away from Monmartre didn't make him feel any better.

With a sigh, the Duke turns back to the window. The sky outside is pitch black, but cloudless. White stars dot the sky, almost like tiny sparkling diamonds.

_Sparkling diamonds_, the Duke thinks, _Almost like __her__…_

He reaches slowly into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He takes a minute to unfold it, before he finds himself staring at a photograph. In it is a beautiful young woman, in a large feathery dress. The picture is black and white but the Duke can still see her colours as clearly as day. The soft pink of her dress, the blue of her eyes, the sheer vibrancy of her hair…

The Duke scowls before throwing the picture onto the fire. Her image quickly disappears as the flames devour the picture but her smiling face is imprinted in his mind forever.

He always found it easy to assume those smiles were for _him_. _Him_, alone, and not for some penniless, idiotic, idealistic writer!

The thought of that damn writer makes the Duke's grip on the armrests tighten, until the flesh of his hands turn white. The Duke has never hated anyone as strongly as the writer. If it weren't for the writer, he would never have done so many horrible things.

The Duke never considered himself a harsh man. He was resentful, of course; but his resentment went back to his childhood, with the father who found solace in alcohol and tried to shut his son up with gift after gift and the mother who never seemed to love him as a mother should love a son. But he tried to never be horrible and he certainly didn't _hate_. But then, the Duke went to Monmartre to consider investment in the Moulin Rouge. That was when he met and fell for the beautiful courtesan.

Despite his best attempts, Satine always managed to escape being with him, finding reasons to rehearse with the writer. But the Duke thought nothing of it; he wanted to support Satine in everything she did. But when the whore, Nini, made the truth so obvious to him, jealously overtook him, throbbing in his veins until he couldn't stand it.

"_WHY SHOULDN'T THE COURTESAN CHOOSE THE MAHARAJAH??_"

But when Satine spoke up, all the Duke's anger melted away. He was convinced that maybe Nini was lying, out of envy and spite. Maybe Satine truly did love him.

And that was what he thought, until he saw that writer staring up at them in the Gothic Tower. Satine had visibly stiffened, and one word escaped her lips.

"_No_."

Hardly anyone had said no to the Duke in a long time, so for a moment, he assumed he had heard wrong. Then he saw the writer and realisation struck him.

"_Oh, I see. Our very own penniless sitar player…_"

Her silence and gasps had confirmed his suspicion, and all common sense left him. He was jealous and furious. No-one could take what was _his_, and Satine was _his_.

What happened next was something so awful, the Duke fills with shame and disgust every time his mind drifts back to it. She was screaming, pleading with him not to do it, but he refused to listen. All he could see was red, the red of anger. Red like fire, red like his carpet, red like her hair…

The Duke shakes his head angrily. Everything reminds him of Satine; she is forever in his thoughts. Everything she did to him becomes insignificant because somehow, the Duke still loves her.

But she never loved him.

The Duke stands and looks forlornly at the fire. The picture is now charred black remains; the last piece of evidence Satine was ever in his life destroyed. As he moves to go to his bedroom, his knees weaken and his throat burns like fire is rushing up it. Coughs overtake him, so strong that he almost collapses. The Duke struggles to get air into his lungs and slumps onto the floor, grasping the side of the armchair tightly.

Eventually, he stops coughing, and the sounds of his coughs are just echoes in the room. The Duke breathes heavily, attempting to regain the strength to stand. He feels something trickle out of her mouth and gingerly raises one hand to his lips, feeling something sticky on his fingers. Pulling them away, he discovers that his hands are now stained bright red with blood. His mind goes into panic mode as he feverishly wipes his hands on his clothes. His chest feels tight, and he is terrified that this could be what he thinks it is. This isn't the first time he's coughed up blood; but he's also been fainting a lot.

Satine fooled him into thinking she loved him.

And now she's left her mark, in more ways than one.

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End.

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**AN: **It was crappy, wasn't it? Well, I thought it was _okay_. I know you all must hate the Duke; hell, _I _hate the Duke, but I was thinking while watching _Moulin Rouge! _for the 877,000, 101st time and I decided that SURELY there must be some heart, or regret in his possibly non-existent heart! Also, the odds of the Duke getting infected with consumption by Satine are awfully low, I know, but I just felt like trying something a little different. Besides, there's surely a _small _chance the Duke could get it, right? :D

Anyway, please review! You may not want to review, but I'd love it if you did! You see, reviews are like oxygen! Reviews are a many splendid thing! Reviews LIFT us up where we belong! All you need are reviews! Reviews are better than Ewan McGregor! …okay, now I'm talking crazy. Reviews are very nice. Please review (to keep me sane).


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